Pat Barker: Double Vision

And she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t work at all without an assistant, and even the best assistant would leave normal working hours curtailed. She regularly started at five or six o’clock when things were going well. That would have to change, and not only that. The way she worked. Everything.

She hobbled back to her chair, missing the other patients whose slow progress back to mobility had mirrored her own. Round about now the visitors would be leaving. The nurses would be stuffing flowers into vases, drawing the blinds, settling people down for the night — and her solitary, shuffling progress suddenly seemed lonely and pathetic. Sometimes the only cure for feeling sorry for yourself is a good long sleep. She would make herself stay up till ten o’clock, make a few calls, watch television, have a couple of stiff whiskies and go to bed.

She was just about to switch on the television when she heard a car approaching. The forest road at night was not much frequented even in good weather, and she wondered who it might be, and hoped it wasn’t Lorna or Beth or Alec come to see how she was. The car slowed to take the bend. She pictured the unknown driver spotting the damage to the trees and wincing — though by now the snow would have covered the tyre marks on the verge. She waited for it to pick up speed again, but it slowed still further, crawling along, looking for the entrance. A shifting skein of light drifted across the wall and stopped as the car stopped. Going to the window, she opened it slightly and heard the crunch of approaching footsteps, but could see nothing. The drive was thickly lined with rhododendrons that in winter formed a long dark tunnel. The footsteps grew louder. A young man with bent head, his dark hair stringy with melted snow, emerged from between the bushes. The security light flicked on as he broke the beam, and flung his shadow behind him up the wall of thick green rubbery leaves.

The door bell rang.

She almost knew who it was. The name was on the tip of her tongue, but to be on the safe side she put the chain on before she opened the door and peered through the crack.

‘Hello?’

‘I believe you’re looking for an assistant.’

‘Ye-es.’

‘Alec Braithewaite sent me. I used to do the churchyard last summer, do you remember?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She released the chain and opened the door. Light streamed on to the path, catching his glasses so that for a moment he looked blind. ‘Come in.’

He stepped over the threshold, bringing with him a smell of wet hair and wool, and began stamping his snow-clogged boots on the mat, shaking off thick curds of white. Snowflakes caught in his hair and on his shoulders dissolved as she gazed.

‘I didn’t realize it was still snowing.’

‘It’s not.’ He smiled. ‘I knocked a branch and got a shower. I think I’d better take my coat off. I’m only going to drip all over your carpet. And these,’ he said, looking down at his feet.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’

‘Peter Wingrave. Look, would you like to ring Alec and check?’

‘No, it’s all right. He did mention you.’

She was thinking it was no wonder she hadn’t recognized him. Last time she saw him he’d been suntanned, stripped to the waist, wielding a scythe on the long grasses between the headstones. She’d bumped into him once or twice as she was walking across the churchyard on her way to the shops, and they’d exchanged a few words about the cull. ‘Isn’t it awful?’ they’d said in passing, as people did who weren’t directly involved. There was no ignoring it. Clouds of oily black smoke from the pyres dominated the skyline. The smell of burning carcasses had hung over the village for weeks.

The cull was the reason for his presence. Until last summer the grass had been cropped by sheep imported for the purpose. Black sheep — she suspected Alec of a clerical joke. They kept the grass down and their droppings, even when deposited on a grave, were not too offensive — or at least nobody had complained. ‘Cows, now,’ Alec had said, ‘I don’t think we could go as far as cows.’ The great thing was they fed themselves and didn’t need to be paid. But then the men from the Ministry came and carted them off to be killed. Peter was more expensive than the sheep, but also, she couldn’t help thinking, more decorative. She remembered him clearly now, sweat glistening on his arms and chest, his jeans slipping further and further down his hips as he swung and turned. As a young single woman, she’d have been seriously tempted. Even as a happily married middle-aged woman, she’d paused to admire the view.

He stood up, flushed from the effort of getting his boots off, wriggling his toes in their damp socks. The boots were old and obviously leaked.

‘Come through,’ she said, hobbling ahead of him into the living room.

‘Oh, a real fire. That’s nice.’

An educated voice, deep, pleasant. She wondered how he’d ended up doing unskilled jobs — but that was his business. And anyway, she thought, gardening isn’t unskilled — it’s just badly paid. He’d shown plenty of skill with that scythe. ‘Do you know, I think you’re the only person I’ve seen using a scythe.’

A small shrug. ‘I grew up in the country.’

‘Oh, whereabouts?’

‘Yorkshire. My grandfather used to use one. But you’re right, I think he was the only person I ever saw doing it. Though it’s not difficult, once you get the rhythm.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Yes, please.’ He looked around for clues and spotted the whisky bottle on the table. ‘Whisky’ll do fine.’

She poured two large glasses. ‘Well,’ she said, lowering herself cautiously into the armchair, feeling like a frail old lady in contrast with his obvious strength and vigour. ‘Alec said he was going to have a word with you.’

‘Yes, he rang a couple of days ago. I left a message on your answering machine, asking if I could call round.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got to the answering machine yet. I only came out of hospital this afternoon. So you’re a gardener?’

‘Mainly, yes.’

‘Must be pretty lean pickings at this time of year?’

‘Awful. Basically it’s dead between November and March. There’s very little.’

‘So how do you manage?’

‘Do a bit of tree surgery. And I’m trying to specialize in water gardening, because actually this is the best time of year to dig ponds. If you leave it till Easter, you’ve missed half the season. And then if it gets too bad, I give in and get a job in a restaurant.’

‘Cooking?’

‘No. Chopping veg and loading dishes.’

‘Sounds pretty dire.’

‘It is, yes, but it’s only for a few months. As soon as the grass grows the phone rings.’

He had a charming smile.

‘Did you train as a gardener?’

‘No.’ A pause. ‘No, I read English.’ He raised the glass quickly to his mouth, hiding his lips.

All right, she thought, no personal questions. Well, that suited her. The last thing she wanted in the studio was chatter.

‘I can give you references. People I’ve worked for.’

He fished in his pocket and produced a sheet of paper, folded twice and slightly damp. Five people were listed on it, four of whom she knew fairly well. ‘Fred Henderson. He’s got that big place just outside Alnwick, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I did his water garden. He went in for it in a big way when he retired. In fact I think it’s the biggest job I’ve ever done.’ He smiled. ‘What can I say? The patio’s level. The ponds don’t leak. The waterfalls work. And the stream’s full of fish.’

She smiled back at him. It was impossible not to like him. ‘Shall I tell you what I want first? Then you can judge for yourself if you can fit in with it.’